The Nature of Things.

It is good to be sitting out,

reading aloud to the birds.

Some listen, some fly,

chattering in continuance,


except the fat robins,

who hop quietly on

greening grass to stab

the soil for living food.


Birds seem to like poetry.

They perch on line breaks,

and fly along the cadence

of syllables as on a windscape.


I close the book and listen

to their poetic rhythm.

They, in their sanctuary,

worshipping responsively.




  1. They’re so busy! Birds are spring poets.

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